


A Marriage Made in Marmalade

by Englishtutor



Series: A Watson When You Need One [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Greg and Molly Get Married, Ian saves the day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6846202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor





	A Marriage Made in Marmalade

“I’m done,” Ian declared firmly.

Sitting at her dressing table, Mary had a perfect view of the bathroom in her mirror. There John was, in dressing gown and bare feet, standing before the basin with his razor. She watched him look over at their son in the bath and then glance at the completely dry cake of soap lying on top of an equally dry flannel.

“No you’re not,” John said. “Get cleaned up, and then I’ll wash your hair.”

“I’m a dwagon!” the child protested, a slight whine in his voice. Mary sniggered silently to herself.

“Then suds up those scales!” his father told him firmly. “Even dragons must look their best when they go to a wedding.”

Ian sighed worthily and splashed about a good deal with the soap until John had finished his own ablutions. Quick work was made of finishing Ian’s bath and John helped the child dry off and don his little dressing gown.

She smiled fondly at her boys as they entered the bedroom together and approached the wardrobe where their matching formal wear hung on the door. They stood side-by-side, at parade rest, surveying the suits with identical expressions of rueful consternation on their faces, just alike in their dressing gowns with their damp, blond hair sticking out in all directions. Mary’s heart expanded with joy over the sight. Could life be any better than this?

“Why, Dad? Why?” Ian demanded. “I don’t like dwessing up.”

“It’s a social convention, Ian. A time-honored, deeply entrenched tradition. This is the price one pays for living in a civilized nation,” John explained with a straight face. 

Mary exploded with raucous laughter and nearly fell off her stool.

“Your mum, on the other hand, is utterly uncivilized, although the dress she’s wearing disguises it well. But we love her anyway, don’t we?” John continued in a confidential tone. 

“Well, I was born in the jungles of India,” Mary chuckled. “No one’s been able to tame me.”

“Can’t Daddy tame you?” Ian asked, intrigued.

John smiled affectionately. “I would never want to try,” he assured them both.

“You wouldn’t dare to try!” Mary crowed cheerfully. “Now, can I trust you two civilized gentlemen to dress yourselves properly? I need to leave; Molly is waiting for me to help her get ready.” She began pulling on her shoes, preparing to rush away.

“Why’s Aunt M’y and Papa Gweg having a wedding?” Ian wanted to know. “They alweddy family.”

“They’re YOUR family,” John told him. “They want to be a special family together, just the two of them. They want to be married, like your mum and me. A wedding is where they make that commitment.”

Ian’s nose wrinkled. “What’s com-mit-mit?”

“It means they promise to stick together forever, no matter what. Then neither of them can go running off to Edinburgh without the other,” John grinned. Ian had been worrying about the possibility of Molly’s taking a job in Edinburgh for months.

Ian frowned. “They alweddy not going to Ed’nbrah,” he objected. “Why they need a com-mit-mit, too?”

Mary had been listening to this exchange as she gathered up the paraphernalia she would need to help Molly with her hair. Now she sat on the edge of the bed and hugged her son.

“Pretend that people are all slices of bread,” she began, and John choked back a guffaw. “There are two slices of lovely bread-and-butter on a plate, side by side. They’ve been friends for eight whole years! But they are still two separate slices of bread. Then one day, Molly-slice and Greg-slice decide they don’t want to be separate slices anymore. So they slather on some jam and . . . .”

“How ‘bout marmalade?” Ian interrupted, intrigued.

“Quite right, that’s what I meant. So they slather on some marmalade and, viola! They become one lovely sandwich! The marmalade is the commitment that holds them together and makes them one. You see?”

Ian considered this seriously for a moment. Then he said gravely, “I like cake better.” Mary collapsed on the bed, helpless with laughter.

John chuckled. “Right. So you have two lovely layers of sponge, the Molly-layer and the Greg-layer. . . .” His story was interrupted by a ringing phone.

“John!” Greg’s anxious voice was clearly heard throughout the room.

“Greg?” John looked concerned. “You okay, mate?”

“It’s Joanne. She’s called again. Now she says she’s coming to the wedding and plans to cause a scene. I don’t mind it myself, John, I’m used to her carryings-on. But Molly doesn’t deserve this.”

John and Mary exchanged worried looks. She watched him straighten, the soldier coming to the rescue. “We’ll take care of it, mate. It’ll be fine,” he said in his best, reassuring doctor’s voice. “It’ll be fine.”

Mary sighed. “Why does the woman have to be so hateful?” she murmured, aggrieved. “She leaves poor Greg for another man five years ago, but when he finds someone else, she suddenly decides she can’t bear for him to be happy without her. She’s been calling him over and over for weeks.”

John was on his phone again. “I’ll put Sherlock on guard duty. Joanne won’t stand a chance,” he assured her.

000

Sherlock, a picture of long-suffering condescension, sat vibrating with impatience beside Mrs. Hudson in the taxi on the way to St. Etheldreda’s Church. It was annoying enough that the people in his life insisted on such a pedestrian sentimentality as marriage—but why must they drag others into the process? And the unholy rush they were in was most unseemly. After a messy, unpleasant divorce, Lestrade had dithered about for five years, throwing himself (quite properly, Sherlock thought) into his work, although remaining mired in feelings of inadequacy and failure. But once he finally became aware of what it was he really wanted, Lestrade had wasted no time dropping to one knee to ask for it. And Molly, having disentangled herself from a persistent fixation on a certain consulting detective, was found amenable to the idea. Mary had explained that, apparently, being adored was preferable to being ignored. Such nonsense! But here they were, a mere four months later, heading for the church to witness the nuptials. Sherlock sighed as audibly as possible.

Mrs. Hudson patted his hand. “There now, dear. Don’t be nervous. Your only responsibility is to escort me up the aisle and collect Ian from John to take back down the aisle to Mary. It isn’t like last time, when you had Best Man duties to perform. That will be John’s responsibility this time.”

Sherlock sighed again. “I am NOT nervous. I am bored out of my mind,” he informed her. “This sort of ‘celebration’ is both specious and irrational, particularly in this day and age. Can’t we just get on with business as usual without this tawdry display of sentiment?”

Mrs. Hudson wisely ignored him. “It’s amazing they were able to get the church so soon. I’ve never seen a church wedding planned out in such a short amount of time. John and Mary’s wedding was planned more quickly than this—only six weeks! But of course, they were married in the park so they didn’t need to worry about renting a venue, did they? And since they had casual dress. . . .”

Sherlock tuned out her prattling. Yes, John and Mary’s wedding had been far superior to this one in that, being in a public park, there was a greater chance of criminal involvement to entertain the guests. . . .

His phone rang. He answered, and Captain Watson began barking orders without preamble. “Sherlock, Greg just got a call from Joanne—she’s on her way to wreak havoc at the wedding. I need you to stand at the door and watch for her and turn her away when she shows up. When it’s time for you to escort Mrs. Hudson up the aisle and collect Ian, Mary can stand guard, and then you can take up the post again while the girls walk up. Be firm, but keep it quiet and subdued as possible. We don’t want anything untoward to happen.”

“This from a man who ran away from his own wedding reception to chase after a pick-pocket,” Sherlock murmured sarcastically.

John sighed. “Just do it, please Sherlock. For Molly. I’ll see you there.”

Now Sherlock’s mood was greatly improved. Something interesting to do at last! He’d butted heads with Joanne Lestrade several times in the past and had found her intransigent, unreasonable, and ill-tempered. Hardly a challenge for his intellect, but entertaining nonetheless.

Soon they arrived at the address on Ely Street and disembarked, Sherlock instructing the cabbie to wait. They entered the little courtyard through the gate and then opened the creaky, wooden double doors to the long corridor of an entryway inside the venerable church. St. Etheldreda’s, the oldest Catholic Church in London, was a popular place for weddings. The fact that it had been fortuitously available at such short notice reeked of the interference of Mycroft’s magic wand—a sickeningly sentimental acknowledgement of all that Lestrade and Molly had done for the British Government’s younger brother over the years. Sherlock’s senses filled with the heady odors of ancient wood and stone, centuries of burning beeswax and incense, and the scent of the flowers which adorned every available surface. Mrs. Hudson descended the stairs to the crypt, where the reception was to take place, to see to the caterers. Sherlock went back outside and stationed himself by the doors to stand guard. The guests began to arrive, chirping happy greetings of all sorts. He studiously ignored them.

The first time Joanne Lestrade turned up, she was easily persuaded to leave. Far too easily. No argument, no altercation. She was testing the waters, just as he had expected. Sherlock watched her cross the street, then crouched behind the courtyard wall by the gate. Sure enough, she soon returned, trying to blend in with a knot of arriving guests; she gave a shriek as Sherlock leaped rather dramatically out at her and grasped her arm firmly. The guests, mostly of New Scotland Yard, tensed immediately, then relaxed as they quickly recognized both the attacker and the attacked.

It was interesting to watch the many shades of vermilion, purple, and scarlet cross the woman’s face as Sherlock silently escorted her to the waiting taxi, Joanne beating at him with her fists and screaming vitriol as they went. Sherlock supposed that this was the very sort of ‘untoward’ scene John had wanted to avoid, but he reasoned that at least they were not inside the building and most of the guests had already arrived and were seated within. Those who were witness to the unpleasantness were pretending with all their might not to notice. Sherlock opened the vehicle door and unceremoniously shoved Joanne inside. She shrieked in protest.

“Oh, do stop this,” Sherlock said impatiently. “You’ve left the man a total of seven times. You obviously don’t want him.”

“He always took me back! He made me believe he’d always be there—that he’d always take me back!” the furious woman cried.

“Yes, he has a punishing sense of commitment. But can you wonder that when you’ve broken a thing once too often, it can no longer be mended?” Sherlock had no sympathy for the woman, this breaker of vows—although he rarely made a vow himself, he felt strongly that once made, it was to be kept at all costs. 

“Here is enough money to take her home,” Sherlock informed the cabbie as he handed over a wad of cash. “But take her where ever she likes—just don’t bring her back here. Have I made myself clear?” The driver nodded, counting out the money with a smile on his face, and then drove away with his charge. Sherlock was under no illusion that they had seen the last of this insanity, but he felt certain that he had bought them enough time to get through the ceremony. By the time Joanne made her way back to the church, it should be only to enliven the reception, which was certain to be deadly dull otherwise.

At that moment, another taxi swept up and Molly and Mary emerged from the rear seat. Molly, dressed in a frothy concoction of lace, ruffles, and ribbons and carrying her veil, was a bundle of nerves as she teetered on her high heels. Mary supported her friend by the elbow, her navy blue bridesmaid’s gown more subdued and dignified in Sherlock’s opinion; she was bare-footed and her own strappy shoes were balanced in the top of the tote bag that dangled from one arm.

“Everything all right?” Mary asked a bit anxiously.

“All taken care of,” Sherlock assured her, leading the way through the courtyard and opening the doors for the ladies. As they entered the corridor, Mrs. Hudson appeared on the stairs.

“Oh, my dears, how lovely you look! Molly, you are a vision in that gown. But Mary, you must go down to the caterers—there’s been a confusion about the canapes, and the florist had a question about the table arrangements,” she fussed anxiously. The girls gave each other a look and immediately descended to the crypt together.

Mrs. Hudson’s face was drawn with discomfort. “It’s my hip, dear. I need to sit down; then I’ll be right as rain in a minute.” She clutched his arm, leaning heavily. “Could you, dear?”

It was a bit early to escort the good lady to her seat in the chapel, but Sherlock was not about to allow his landlady to suffer a moment longer than necessary. He offered his arm and led her to the stairs to the chapel and helped her ascend. It was odd, how pleasant if felt to have this kind, loving woman on his arm as he took her down the center aisle to her seat. Such a simple gesture, but one that filled him with an uncomfortable amount of sentiment.

And there was Ian, the ring-bearer, standing on the foremost bench between the best man and the groom and facing the rear. He waved his little hand at his Uncle Sh’ock” and his “Gran”, and Mrs. Hudson beamed at him. His landlady seated and the ring-bearer acquired, Sherlock turned to head back down the aisle, Ian’s hand securely in his. And then he saw her.

Joanne Lestrade was in an aisle seat about halfway up the nave, glowering at him. The tilt of her head dared him to do something about it and cause a scene in the very church. He approached her grimly, hoping John and Greg would not turn around and see her as well and know that he had failed in his assignment. Gritting his teeth, he bent over her threateningly, ready for an altercation.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded in an angry whisper.

“What do you think I’m doing here?” she hissed in return.

“It’s for a wedding,” Ian explained innocently, taking their questions quite literally. “It’s to make a com-mit-mit, like a marmalade sandwich.” And on and on he prattled; Sherlock could not understand a word the child said. But in moments, Joanne’s face had blanched whiter than any corpse and she abruptly stood and rushed from the chapel, brushing by Molly and Mary at the entryway without a backward glance.

Feeling rather in shock, Sherlock led Ian to the rear of the chapel and joined the girls there. Mary grabbed his arm unceremoniously and dragged him out of earshot of the congregation. “What on earth did you say to her?” she demanded. “Well done, by the way, but how did you do it?”

“I didn’t do anything. Ian did all the talking—some nonsense about marmalade sandwiches,” Sherlock muttered crossly. He had been stoked for a fiery confrontation and was feeling rather let down.

“She didn’t know why we here, so I told her ‘bout com-mit-mit,” Ian explained. “’Bout making a marmalade sandwich, and the breads are the people and the marmalade is the com-mit-mit; and I told about when I pull my sandwich apart, it make a big mess and I have to sometimes throw it away ‘cause it’s ruined. Marmalade is sticky.”

The three adults stood and stared at each other for several seconds in awed bemusement. Then Mary beamed at her offspring and cried, “Well done, Ian!”

“You’re brilliant!” Molly praised, hugging her little nephew and consequently crushing some of the frothy lace on her bodice.

Sherlock, understanding at last that Ian had been using a metaphor, now grasped the meaning of the child’s gibberish. “But, that’s exactly what I told her—only in clear, unmistakable language!” he protested. It was humiliating to realize that a three-year-old had been able to communicate more effectively than he had.

Mary smiled. “A picture is worth a thousand words, Sweetheart.” She patted his arm gently. “Come on, Molly, let’s get this marmalade sandwich put together.”

It was a beautiful wedding.


End file.
